


Ghost In The Godswood

by Unread



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Injured Ghost, Post-Battle of Winterfell, post-S8E3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 14:21:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unread/pseuds/Unread
Summary: “He won’t be very friendly right now, little bird,” the Hound rasped, looking at the huge, injured wolf with about the same expression as he had the dragon carcass.Ghost suddenly stopped whining and started to growl, no longer trying to lick his leg. He was staring at them, red-eyed and intent. “You’d better let me go,” Sansa said. She met the Hound’s eyes and added, “He won’t hurt me.”





	Ghost In The Godswood

**Author's Note:**

> This is just about to be steamrollered by the next episode, but oh well I'm posting it anyway. I hope someone enjoys it before it's totally jossed :D

“Have you seen Ghost today?” Sansa asked Ser Davos, who was once again overseeing the feeding of the smallfolk and soldiers alike, or what remained of them. He handed over a bowl to an old lady, one who had probably been down in the crypts even though Sansa did not recognise her. A small girl with a burned cheek and a stern expression sat on a wooden stool next to him handing out bread, and Sansa tried not to stare. She looked back at Davos. “I saw him from the walkway, but by the time I got down here he’d gone. I think he might be injured.” She had only caught a glimpse of the wolf but it was enough to worry her, as his white fur had been stained red and she had thought there had been a limp to his gait.

“Haven’t seen him since last night, my lady,” Ser Davos said, with a sad grimace. “But I’ll keep my eyes peeled for him.”

“Thank you.” Sansa smiled somewhat wanly at him and at the small girl, who practically glared at her. She continued on through the courtyard, past the rubble and mess of the battle. Against the far wall was a pile of bodies stacked up high, and she tried not to look at it. She had already seen too many bodies that day. She wound her way through the men and women who were tiredly helping with the clean up, or treating wounded, or simply sleeping on the ground from sheer exhaustion.

The afternoon sun was almost shockingly warm in comparison to the frigid temperatures they had been enduring for months. Perhaps this winter would no longer be a long and harsh one, now that the Night King was gone. Vanquished, and by Arya, no less. It still seemed so unreal to Sansa, even though Bran and Arya had told her and everyone else in the meeting they’d had at dawn what had happened. What had caused all the dead to well, be dead again. Sansa knew now why Bran had given Arya Littlefinger’s dagger. He had known all along.

She realised then where Ghost had most likely gone to lick his wounds, and tried to steel herself against it. Theon’s body wasn’t there anymore; it was waiting to be burned. They would put his ashes in an urn and his final resting place would be down in the family crypts. He was a Stark in Sansa’s eyes, and belonged there with them.

She was so lost in these recollections and fresh sorrows--and perhaps exhaustion was finally taking its toll on her too--that she collided with someone as she went through a shadowy archway.

“Watch it,” a voice growled at her, and even through her distraction it rang a familiar bell in her mind.

She saw him, but at first could not register the man in front of her. He seemed like a memory that had drifted its way out of her head and somehow become solid. His burned face, his long lank hair, his dark eyes seething with a scowl. His beard was heavier and his face more lined, but it was the Hound, carrying an armful of discarded dragonglass weapons. She felt as if she had somehow tumbled back into the past.

“How...what are you doing here?” she said, astonishment making her blunter than she otherwise would have been.

He had gone still and was looking at her, scowl at being bumped into gone. He seemed disturbed instead, discomforted in some way Sansa could not decipher. A muscle in his burned cheek twitched. “I wish people would stop fucking asking me that,” he muttered. He dropped his armful of weapons into a nearby wheelbarrow and then pulled a flask from his sword belt, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a long swallow.

“I didn’t know you were in Winterfell, that’s all,” Sansa said finally, somehow unable to turn her eyes from him. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

The Hound wiped his mouth with his hand. “Are you, little bird? Well that makes one of you.”

Something in Sansa’s chest shifted at his words-- _little bird_ \--and once again felt like she had been thrown back into her past, into King’s Landing. It wasn’t something that ever gave her pleasure to revisit, but him...she could see what he was back then now more clearly than she had in those days. He was one of the very few people who had genuinely tried to help her, in his own awful way. She had for a long time regretted not taking up his offer of escape, just as she ended up regretting not taking Brienne’s help at first. Those regrets were low embers now, but would burn in her forever.

But she wasn’t in King’s Landing, and hadn’t been for a very long time. She realised suddenly that she was still staring at him, and forced herself to recollect what she was doing. “Have you seen Ghost?” she asked, more for lack of anything else to say than any real hope of an answer.

He raised his unburnt eyebrow at her. “No, I haven’t seen any ghosts. Not since last night at least, if that’s what those fuckers were. Killed a lot of them.”

Sansa let out a surprised laugh. It was that or fall into despair thinking about all the horrors that had happened in the night. “No, I meant Jon’s wolf. Have you seen him? I think he might have gone into the godswood.”

“Your guess is better than mine, little bird,” he said. He went to raise the flask to his mouth again, but she interrupted him by saying impulsively, “May I borrow that?”

His lips twisted up into a smile as he immediately proffered it to her. “Taken to drink, then?”

Sansa took the flask somewhat gingerly and recorked it. “Not yet,” she said, and then moved past him through the archway and headed into the adjoining courtyard.

“Oi!” he called after her, clearly surprised. “Where are you going with it?”

Sansa couldn’t help but smile a little when she heard the sound of his feet following behind her as picked her way through the rubble-strewn courtyard. The godswood was some distance off, and the closer she got the more destruction she saw. She tried not to think about how long and difficult the rebuilding process would be. They were alive, and for today that was all that mattered.

She had to step over chunks of the destroyed battlements, and saw several bodies that were too buried to have been removed yet. The grounds and walls were badly scorched and some parts were still smoking. She wondered if that would be enough to make the Hound decide to give up his flask for a loss and find another elsewhere. It suddenly occurred to her how awful it would have been for him--not only the dead, but the fire. She remembered how badly the battle of the Blackwater had affected him, and last night had been ten Blackwaters.

When she walked past the huge broken skull of a dead dragon, she stopped and stared and swallowed. The Hound stopped too. “Fucking dragons,” was all he said, and Sansa found herself heartily agreeing with the sentiment.

She looked at him again then, and realised he was wearing a tunic instead of armour. It made him seem a little less imposing than she remembered, although he was certainly still just as tall. He had no bloody remnants of the battle on him as Jon had that morning when he had come down into the crypts, gore covered and wild-eyed, to tell them the battle was over.

 _He must have bathed_ , she thought, and then wondered why her mind would conjure such a thing. The idea of the Hound bathing was an odd thing to ever think about, especially now, and she felt both a little amused and a little embarrassed with herself.

There were fewer people around these parts, and when they reached the sagging godswood gate it appeared to be completely deserted. According to Arya and Bran, the godswood had been the epicentre of the events of last night. Thankfully the bodies had been removed earlier in the day, although the white walkers themselves had left nothing behind but shards of ice. But it was clear that no one wanted to linger in a place where such unfathomable events had taken place. It was similar to the general reaction to Bran, a fear of the unknown. She herself was not immune to it, but it wasn’t only the mysteries of the Night King that made her fearful of this place now. She made herself push the gate further open and walk through it, and was a little relieved at the sound of the Hound still tagging at her heels.

The ground still held evidence of a terrible fight, snow churned up and broken arrows and weapons strewn about the ground. Sansa did not know which pool of blood belonged to Theon, and averted her eyes so she would not try to find it. Her stomach was knotted as she walked past the debris and desecration of this once-sacred place, but she pushed onwards around the crying weirwood tree and into the denser woods behind it.

She had found Ghost in there once before, tucked away under a fallen tree. He’d trodden on a nail after lurking near some carpenters renovating a section of the castle and had crept away to lick his wounds. Only by luck had Sansa been in the godswood, and followed him. The nail had been pulled out and Ghost had been forbidden from haunting the workers, probably to their great relief.

The snow was undisturbed further in, and to her relief she saw wolf tracks. It was short-lived, however, because the trail was also covered with fresh blood spatters. That made it easy to follow, and soon enough she saw him, tucked away under the same fallen boughs. He looked up at their approach and whined.

His left flank was streaked with red, vibrant against the white of his fur, and Sansa immediately saw the cause of it. A dagger was sunk into the meat of his front leg, nearly up to the wooden hilt. She stepped closer, but was halted when the Hound grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“He won’t be very friendly right now, little bird,” he rasped, looking at the huge wolf with about the same expression as he had the dragon carcass.

Ghost suddenly stopped whining and started to growl, no longer trying to lick his leg. He was staring at them, red-eyed and intent. “You’d better let me go,” Sansa said. She met the Hound’s eyes and added, “He won’t hurt me.”

The Hound released her arm with a scowl, and put his hand on the hilt of his sword instead. Ghost stopped growling and after a moment resumed his licking.

“Shouldn’t your bloody brother be doing this? It’s his pet, not yours, isn’t it?”

“Jon is helping the queen tend to the injured dragon,” Sansa said, trying to keep resentment from bleeding into her voice. It almost felt like another betrayal, like Jon was choosing the Targaryen over the North yet again. She knew her feelings weren’t entirely rational, but she still wished he would stop expending all his efforts in that direction. It couldn’t be helped, though. Jon would make his own choices, just as Sansa would make hers. “And I don’t mind looking after Ghost.”

Sansa went and knelt down next to the wolf in the snow, dropping the Hound’s flask beside her. She cupped Ghost’s big, soft head in her hands. He whined again, then shifted enough to rest his head in her lap. She had spent more time with him than Jon had, these past months, and it hurt her to see him in such pain. “Good boy,” she whispered, eyeing the offending handle sticking out of his shoulder. “This is going to hurt, but then it will be better, I promise.”

Without thinking too much about it, she grasped the hilt of the dagger and pulled, quick. Ghost yelped and jerked, shrinking away from her. “Sorry!” she said, and got a whine and a reproachful look in answer. She looked at the dagger and was relieved to find the blade fairly small. She realised that one of the dead must have stabbed it into him, and tossed it away into the snow in disgust.

The wound on Ghost’s shoulder was bleeding freely now, and he was trying to lick it again. Sansa took up the flask and unstoppered it, then shifted closer to the wolf. He whined but stayed still as she slowly poured the entire contents over the grisly hole, the wine washing away the blood and staining the fur anew.

“Waste of good wine,” the Hound muttered from behind her, and it almost made her smile.

Sansa reached into a pocket in her dress and pulled out a folded linen handkerchief, one with little wolf sigils she had embroidered on it. After a bit of maneuvering, she managed to tie it around Ghost’s leg to cover the wound. “Good enough for now,” she said, and got to her feet. “Come on, Ghost. You’ll be more comfortable inside by the fire.”

Ghost heaved himself up and took a careful, limping step, and then another. He seemed to decide to take Sansa’s advice and started to head out of the wood. Sansa handed the empty flask back to Hound and then followed after Ghost.

She kept pace with the limping wolf as they retraced their steps, the Hound behind her disgruntledly muttering about having to find some more wine. Ghost nearly came up to her shoulder, and she marveled at his size as she still sometimes did. The last time she had seen him, before she had gone to Jon in Castle Black, he’d been still a pup like her own Lady. It was strange to consider just how many years had gone by since then. She reached out and patted his soft fur again rather wistfully, and his tail wagged at her touch. She wondered if he still missed his brothers and sisters.

“Your little sister didn’t tell you I was here,” the Hound said suddenly, catching up enough to walk beside her.

“No, she didn’t. You’ve seen her, then?” Sansa felt an odd stab of annoyance at the thought of Arya not telling her he was in Winterfell, even though Arya couldn’t know what he was to her. _She_ didn’t even know what he was to her. It was a little bit unsettling how instantly she trusted him. Hadn’t that been beaten and betrayed out of her yet? But then, he had never betrayed her or even lied to her.

“Seen her? I fucking saved her vicious little arse last night. Me and Beric. She was being chased down by dozens of those dead fuckers. I had to pick her up and haul her away from them. Beric gave his last life for her,” he said, his last words cutting off abruptly and sounding slightly choked. It was the most he had spoken so far, and there was pain etched clear on his damaged face.

“His last life?” Sansa asked, even though that was only one of the things crowding her mouth wanting to be said. He’d saved Arya. Of course he had. Hadn’t he fought Brienne because he thought she was a Lannister soldier trying to take Arya back to King’s Landing? He hadn’t been the only one to misjudge Brienne; she was guilty of that herself.

“Aye. The red fucking god kept bringing him back. I killed him myself one time, long ago.”

“Jon was brought back once. By the red witch,” Sansa said in a hushed voice. She still didn’t understand any of what had happened to Jon. It frightened her as much as she was grateful for it.

“Beric was on his tenth, I think. Not coming back this time.” There was poorly restrained anger in his voice, and Sansa realised that she knew him well enough to understand that it was sorrow.

“Thank you. For saving Arya.”

He didn’t respond for a moment, and then finally said, “I almost died for her.  I suppose that’s a better death than I should be given. Wouldn’t be so bad, dying for her. Or you, if need be.”

The words hung in the air, and Sansa’s heart gave an odd jolt in her chest. It almost sounded like a pledge, although it was as different to the one Brienne had given her as night was to day. “I think I would prefer you to live,” she said, a little shakily. “But I’d like it if you were watching out for us.”

There was an awkward silence after that, and out of a need to fill it she said, “They came out of the tombs, last night, down in the crypts. They killed some of the women down there. Arya had given me a dragonglass dagger even though I didn’t know how to use it, and Tyrion was ready to fight them as well, but then they all fell down and stopped moving. We thought they were going to kill us all.”

“Lucky your sister did what she did then, before you had to try out that dagger you don’t know how to use.”

“I hated it. I hated feeling so useless.” She’d told Tyrion last night that there was nothing they could do, but she had understood his frustration at doing nothing all too well. “I think I finally understand why Arya has always needed to fight. I never quite did before.”

“You should get her to teach you some of her little tricks then. Why wasn’t the Tarth bitch there? Wasn’t she supposed to be protecting you?”

“Brienne was needed with the army. She would have been wasted in the crypts.” Sansa remembered seeing Brienne at the meeting that morning, and she had barely been able to lift her sword arm. Ser Jaime and Podrick looked similarly exhausted and were covered in all manner of gore and soot. They, along with many of the fighters left alive, were still sleeping off the night’s exertions. “I should have taken Ghost down there. He would have protected us, and he shouldn’t have been out on the battlefield anyway.”

Ghost turned his head and gave a huff that sounded practically indignant. The Hound threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t think he likes you questioning his manhood, little bird.”

She laughed too, and watched how amusement played out on the Hound’s face. She wasn’t sure if it made him less terrifying or more, but either way she found it difficult to look away from him.

“Where is your little sister, anyway?” he said after a moment, and perhaps Sansa was imagining it but she heard something like concern in his voice.

“Sleeping, I think.” She didn’t mention how Arya had disappeared into her chambers that morning with a common blacksmith and had yet to resurface. She was surprised to find she envied Arya, just a little. It wasn’t so simple for her, and perhaps never would be. She had told Tyrion it would never work between them because of the Dragon queen, but there was also a part of her that wondered if she could ever love a man or even just _bed_ a man, after Ramsay. And yet, living the rest of her life alone seemed a very bleak prospect to her.

Soon enough, they found themselves back in the courtyard where the Hound had been collecting weapons, but instead of going back to his work he continued to walk with her.

“I need wine,” he said, without her even prompting him.

“I should make up for using yours,” she said. “Come with me inside and I’ll show you where there is plenty. You can have some of the Stark family wine. I’m sure it will be better than what you’ve been drinking.”

“I’ll take your fancy wine if that’s what you want, little bird,” he said with a smirk.

When they got closer to where Ser Davos was, he waved them over. He was still with the little burnt-faced girl, although they had by now finished handing out food and were simply sitting together behind the serving benches in the sun.

“Found him, then?” Ser Davos said, and then whistled as he looked Ghost over and took in the bandaged wound, which had by now bled through the cloth. “That looks nasty.”

“It’s not as bad as it could be, thankfully,” Sansa said, and then realised that the little girl was staring intently at the Hound. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, until she suddenly climbed up on the bench in front of them and reached over to tap him on the shoulder. He turned and looked at her, his usual unfriendly glower at being interacted with fully present, but it didn’t seem to deter the girl. Quite the opposite, as she put her small hands to his scarred, bearded cheeks to bring his face level with hers.

She looked at him very seriously and said, “You’re just like me.”

There was utter astonishment in the Hound’s expression, but after a moment he said in his rough voice, “Aye little one, but I’m taller and meaner than you.”

“I’ll be tall and mean one day too,” she said resolutely.

“On that day we will be the same then,” he replied, and looked relieved when she let him go.

Sansa watched them both in utter fascination and found herself only barely managing to keep from laughing. She met Ser Davos’s eyes and by the twinkle in them he seemed to be having a similar difficulty.

The Hound seemed relieved again when Sansa said farewell to them and they continued on, heading in the direction of the great keep. Sansa was still having trouble keeping a smile off her face. He noticed eventually, and grunted, “What?”

“You and that little girl,” Sansa’s smile finally broke into an all out grin.

“What about it?” he said, looking defensive.

“You were sweet with her.”

“I…” He seemed completely taken aback, and then the scowl darkened his face again. “I was not.”

“You were.”

He huffed and didn’t say anything else, which only added to Sansa’s amusement. She thought perhaps she shouldn’t being feeling such lightness on such a day as this, and it wasn’t that she didn’t feel enormous and irreparable loss. Theon was a hero, she had already known that. He had died protecting Bran, and her gratefulness and grief for him would live inside her forever. But for today, she let the strange elation fill her. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, perhaps it was the unusual sunniness, or just the simple fact that she, Jon, Bran, and Arya were alive against all the odds. She didn’t know which it was, but she let her feelings take what course they would. The fullness of her grief could wait until the morrow.

The corridors of the castle were deserted, as everyone was either resting or outside helping with the clean up. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. Ghost walked a bit faster in front of them down the corridor, perhaps eager for his spot by the fire.

“The Lady of Winterfell,” the Hound said, his tone a little bit mocking and perhaps a little appreciative too. “How do you like it then, little bird?”

“Far better than King’s Landing,” Sansa said with conviction. “I’d rather deal with an undead dragon than Cersei Lannister.”

The Hound chuckled raspily. “Aye, I may too at that.” He paused, and then added, “It suits you better than King’s Landing did. I suppose you always were a wolf underneath.”

She smiled at him, and for a moment all the years between then and now hung between them like some great divide with unknown depths, and suddenly she couldn’t bear the distance. Couldn’t bear not knowing what those years had held for him, and him not knowing what hers held either.

She impulsively grabbed his arm to halt him, and when he turned to her questioningly she stepped closer and embraced him, arms around his neck. He made a noise of surprise, a sharp shocked intake of breath. He stood stock still against her and made no other movement, as if her touch had turned him to stone.

Her heart was pounding but she smiled into the shoulder of his tunic. He really must have bathed, she thought, as he smelt only of rough soap and sweat. He must have wanted to get rid of the blood and smoke of the battle.

She pulled back so she could look at his face, her hands still resting on his shoulders. His eyes were wide and his mouth worked as if he wanted to say something but could not form the words. She felt similarly tongue-tied, so she leaned up and kissed him instead.

His beard was scratchy against her skin, but his lips were warm and soft and tasted of wine. Her blood was pounding through her veins and she didn’t know if it was because of the kiss or from the disbelief that she was kissing the Hound. When she pulled away, it was to a look of sheer horror on the Hound’s face, which wasn't the reaction she was expecting, if she had thought to expect anything.

“What the _fuck_ did you do that for?” he said, voice nothing more than a furious rasp.

“Did you mind it?” Sansa said, doubt suddenly creeping in. She hadn’t even thought about whether _he_ would want her to kiss him, and the thought shook her. Her mouth tingled where his lips had touched hers, and she licked them guiltily.

“Seven fucking hells," he growled, his dark eyes wild and intent on her face. "Mind? You could run me through with my own sword and I wouldn’t fucking mind, little bird. But why would you want... I’m not...I’m no handsome prince. Or a fucking knight.”

“Because I’ve had such good luck with those,” Sansa said wryly, and felt the ground stabilise beneath her feet again. “You’re a good man. You may not think it, but I see it. You saved me and you saved Arya.”

“That’s the only reason? You may as well kiss Brienne of fucking Tarth then.”

“No, that isn’t the only reason. I...I thought we were all going to die last night.”

“Everyone thought that.”

“Well, it made me realise something.”

“What's that?”

“That I want to live.”

“And that involves...kissing me.”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I just... _wanted_ to.” And she had, and she still did, and it was astonishingly easy to want him. It hit her then, that perhaps her future would not be as lonely as she’d imagined.

He stared at her, bafflement still etched on his features. She reached out a hand and touched his beard, and then up to brush the hair away from his burned forehead. He gave an almost imperceptible flinch at her touch, jaw clenching, but his eyes never left her face. She leaned forward slowly this time, a fair warning, and carefully pressed their mouths together again. He shuddered and then slid his large warm hands across the small of her back to pull her closer. It was unlike any of the kisses she had ever had, filling all of her senses and sending warmth shooting low in her belly.

A growl suddenly sounded from nearby, and they broke apart with a gasp. Ghost was staring at the Hound, teeth bared in a warning.

“I think you should listen to your wolf, little bird,” the Hound said, his rough voice almost gentle. “You shouldn’t be doing this. Not with me.”

“He’s really not my wolf,” Sansa said, and turned away from Ghost back to the Hound. “And it’s not his choice to make.”

She pulled him into another kiss, smiling, and felt that it was good to be alive.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got this far, thanks for reading! If you'd like, you can find me on [the old tumblr](https://lookslikeaquentinblakedrawing.tumblr.com/).


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